Right Neighborly
by Mirwalker
Summary: Steve Rogers doesn't lie; and in Winter Soldier, he told Romanoff, "It was not my first kiss since 1945. I'm 95, I'm not dead." What's that story? (teaser prologue posted; working title)


_**Captain America**_ (Marvel movieverse):

 _ **Right Neighborly** _ (working title)

 _ **Teaser Prologue**_

* * *

The 21st Century hadn't come with an instruction manual.

Well, the 20th hadn't either; but Steve Rogers'd had a lot more time to ease into the culture and technology of his home millennium. So, today he'd spent yet another many hours trying to rebuild his life in the present by shopping for items for his new apartment, by navigating another stream of pop culture references and how-to intricacies of modern life.

He _had_ been around—again—long enough to know that it was usually pointless to try and explain his sometimes obvious lack of 'now' awareness. No, people wouldn't listen or believe the story if he told them. And it was somewhat confidential, even with his alter ego's story in the press since the Battle of New York. Instead, he was left looking foolish as schoolchildren and seniors alike glared with irritation, or pity, at the seemingly simple and obvious things he didn't know.

SHIELD had offered to provide a docent for him, described as an "adjustment consultant." But he didn't want a babysitter by any name; and had decided that facing the contemporary culture directly was the best way to learn. "Self-directed immersion acculturation," the developmental experts had agreed he could try. They, and even the lay folk he encountered, had suggested a string of apps on the pocket phone they'd issued him. But having all human knowledge and pop culture streaming through the small screen in his hand only concentrated the deluge; a waterfall was still a waterfall, even when digital and portable.

So, before recently moving to Washington, DC, he'd picked up a small pocket notebook to jot down things as he encountered them in real life, in order to ask about or look them up later. But there was still so much he didn't know or recognize, he'd quickly had to scale back the 'to learn' list to include only items that seemed to come up repeatedly, or were adamantly suggested by others. For everything else, he'd just begun treating them as a game he called MI-MHI: Was the reference a Movie, Internet, Music or other HIstorical detail he'd missed? As with the online "font or cheese?" quiz Tony Stark had suggested, his success rate with MIMHI was only so-so.

This afternoon, he'd taken shelter from all the novelty in an "antiques" store, run by woman technically younger than him by at least two decades, and filled with items he called 'familiar,' but which trendy capital hipsters rummaged for as "retro" and "nostalgic."

One such "classic" desk lamp and some light groceries in hand, he trudged up the stairs to his "new" apartment for further escape to a bygone time. The building was older than he was, providing some comfort; and after SHIELD technicians had checked and then decked it out for all the modern communication conveniences, he'd begun decorating it in a style more in keeping with its history, as well as it historical occupant.

As he came in and set everything down on the counter, he was still thinking about one of the week's repeated references: Why were these "birds" so angry, and why did anyone—much less everyone—care? Recalling that 'pigs' were somehow also involved, he noticed the piece of paper that fluttered to the floor. Tossing his keys expertly into the bowl by the door, he draped his jacket over one of the two chairs at the small desk/table, flipped on the lights and picked it up.

Grimacing, he recalled finding the handwritten note tucked into his door handle the previous week: "Greetings new neighbor! Haven't been able to catch you in person, so am resorting to tried and true, paper and graphite communique: I'd love to make your favorite eat to welcome you to the building. Call or drop me a note with your dish wish. (Don't make me choose for you!) –Abby Gettler, Unit 7, DuPont Arms hospitality committee, self-appointed"

He again appreciated the offer—something his own mother would have done in their building back in Brooklyn. Back eighty years ago… No, he didn't need to go any further down the road of regrets over what had been and was no more. And, for exactly the same reasons, he also didn't need to go through the introductory story and explanations with yet another well-intended acquaintance. While he probably couldn't ignore the offer—she'd happily threatened as much, he could, and would, politely decline.

"I SAID NO!" a deep voice in the apartment above his seemed to agree out of nowhere, followed by a shudder, shattering glass and a higher pitched scream.

* * *

 _tbc..._

 **NOTES**

The "cheese or font?" online quiz is really real...

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